Windows.

Perpetual splendor and screaming at the wall;
the silences break down at 6 in the morning,
after eyes lay heavy under the tension of daylight
hits the sky and brings our minds to our knees.

The paper peeling off the white powder on the walls
reminds me of sick fantasies and bleeding down the
sink while I peeled my skin off and sank into sleep.

You always watch from a distance, never closer than a
few inches, until you hear the sounds of the pathetic
raindrops that beat on the window and slip down the roof at night.
Then you come running; ready to prevent a crime scene tape
like you'd been waiting for it to happen all along.

But someday it'll be too late;
and the rain will pour too quietly for you to hear --
and we can only pray that adoration can survive the day
and bring us to the carpet in a mess of white and sweat.

There's a therapy that sits on the windshield of your car;
but it wipes away so easily, and it never comes back.
Just like every angel that finds it's way across my blind spots
so fucking often.

I'll take it in stride, and keep throwing our nighttime punches,
wearing myself down until it becomes easy to find my way to the
pillow you carry inside of yourself; and the soul that dances in that
five-pointed pattern we traced into a un-educational floor
on the night my life changed; to keep me repeating,
"just one more day in this world, then I'll go."